


Season Binds

by Idonquixote



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aliens as fantasy creatures, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Gore, Broken Spock, F/M, Hurt Jim, Hurt Spock, Hurt/Comfort, Jim whump, M/M, Slavery, Soul Bond, Tarsus IV, This will end with spirk, Vulcan extinction, spock whump, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1834177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idonquixote/pseuds/Idonquixote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he leaves a life of oppression behind, runaway Jim Kirk comes to the assistance of an odd dealer. In return, he's saddled with a strange gift- an instrument that summons the otherworldly. With the summoner's tune, Kirk accidentally binds a demon to his soul. But no one ever told him the demon would be so bitter... or so broken.</p><p>The new bind in place, the two soon themselves thrust into a world of demonic fights, secrets, and the supernatural. At the same time, Kirk continues his escape from the past while struggling to understand the tragic creature known as Spock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Season Binds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've had this idea for a while so I decided to go ahead and create this au. Hopefully, it will be worth your time. I promise that it will be a lengthy, brutal ride for the protagonists.

In the dead of winter, the great lake on Riverside's outskirts would freeze all over. There, the undesired would hack for ice and food, their bodies bound in thick shapeless jackets, heads covered in hoods and shadows. These were the men and women, boys and girls, that spoke too roughly and thought too darkly, bodies marred with neverending bruises and telltale scars. They were no strangers to hunger and thirst, fatigue and pain. The only danger in the bleak wintry mist was the thrill of cold and isolation.

These coarse groups came days at a time, in sleds that barely worked, gloved hands itchy to work. This was a job for the most expendable, the boys who would never be merchants and girls who would never marry.

This story starts with a boy who became a man. This man walked across a sheet of ice and refused to turn back. He had worked this job for seven some years, fishing when the weather warmed, packing the goods when summer came, and hacking away for the all the rest. But one way or another, this man had grown sick of it.

His father's name had been Kirk, a man once a hero and now long dead. His mother had succumbed to the cold ten years after and his stepfather, he lost to the war long past. His brother had fled soon after and left him to fate's hand. James Tiberius grew hard and rough, in a body that withstood cold and heat and blood and scar, a weed stuck and cast out in the lonesome snow.

* * *

**Part 1:** _My name is James T. Kirk and I've lived in Riverside all my life- or the part I care to remember anyway._

The battered snowmobile came to a noisy stop. It wasn't his anyway. And he never wanted to see it again. The afternoon sun bled into the sky and the dim winter landscape was nothing but pink, barren land. Jim hopped off the electric sled, checking the wooden knobs and rusty edges. Busted. He tapped the front with a finger poking out of his ripped glove. Seven years with the same dented vehicle, watching it gather rust and dust and wounds. Battle wounds, he liked to call it. They'd fended off wolves together, fought through the worst blizzards together, and now it had taken him straight into freedom.

Riverside, the place he should have called home, was miles behind him. It was for the better. Jim gave the snowmobile one last affectionate pat. "Bye, buddy," he mouthed, the steam curling out of his breath, "you were the best."

And he was off, dirty boots trudging through the crunchy ground, face lost in his thick hood. It took him an hour before he reached the next town, if it could be called that. The village was small, made of wooden shacks and houses bunched together. The sun had set by then and the gnawing in his stomach told him to go for a big drink or small meal.

 _Tommy's Tavern_  was the first open shop he came across. Jim had enough money on him to afford something. Or he hoped so at least. He entered, pulling the hood back and shaking the water from his body. It was crowded, most people hovering over the furnace, the kindling fire inside so large it sent splashes of orange shadow on the tavern walls and across the occupants' faces.

It looked a bit like the devil's den, in Jim's opinion. That meant he shouldn't have any problems here. Basking in the warmth, he made his way over to the bar, a few curious faces turning his way.

"You have anything heavy?" he asked the tender, a wiry man whose features were blurred by a thick beard.

"Hellfire spirit's the heaviest we got," the tender answered, sizing Jim up, as if wondering if this boy had money or not.

"I've got money for a few drinks."

The smell of food waded into his nostrils- smelled a bit like beef, hot, salted, and chewy- what he wouldn't do for beef jerky now. He licked his lips in an effort not to drool.

"How much for a meal around here?"

"Five credits."

"Get me some of what they're having," Jim said, gesturing at the couple in the table behind him, "and throw in a shot of Hellfire."

"Sure thing, kid. Eight credits."

Jim shed his jacket and sat with a hand on his chin as he waited. He really didn't have any plans beyond this point.  _Some genius_. He had gotten out of Riverside undetected- well, there'd be no going back now unless he wanted to be arrested for disobedience and theft. The snowmobile was busted and he was stranded in a deadbeat town in the middle of winter. Heading south seemed like a good idea. If he controlled his appetite, the credits he brought would last him a few weeks. Enough time to score a new job and start somewhere else.

But the thought turned him off. All he wanted was to roam, like some kind of ditzy nomad, and maybe he'd be able to track down Sam- no, he didn't want that man in his life, not after Sam left him to die on- no, that was in the past. Jim Kirk only existed in the moment.

The tender placed the drink on the counter while a waitress arrived with Jim's meal, something colorful, steaming, and looking hard as shit to chew. It was exactly as he imagined. And exactly what he needed. He dug into the meal, finishing it within minutes, chewing far too loudly and chugging down the shot. It warmed him and sent a blast of energy down his being. Strong stuff.

"I'm going to smash your face in!" a voice thundered.

Jim snapped to attention. A stocky musclehouse of a man was holding someone by the throat, the latter's eyes bulging as his assailant dangled him around. It was a pudgy guy that was being beaten, his beady eyes squinting in pain, a curled stache under his bleeding nose, grinning mouth covered in red. Jim saw a swollen eye.

"It's in the fine print!" fatty wheezed.

Muscleman slammed fatty into the wall and jumped at him, throwing punch after punch. And no one was doing anything. The tender didn't seem to notice and everyone else just stood around. The hell was wrong with them? Angry, Jim left his chair and ran towards the fight, intent on breaking it up. Fatty would die otherwise.

"Hey, hey!" he shouted, "that's enough." He caught muscleman's fist in his own. Now face to face, Jim blanched at the familiarity.

The face of Finnegan, Riverside businessman and raging drunk, was inches from his own. "Kirk," the man said in disbelief, "what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be picking ice?"

"I took a vacation. Why are you here?"

Finnegan sneered. Jim hadn't been expecting to run into a familiar face so soon, especially one that belonged to his biggest tormentor and fishing supervisor. "Business- you're in trouble, Kirk- bad trouble."

"Not if you keep your damn mouth shut."

Jim was kneed in the groin. He doubled over with a groan, Finnegan looming over him as fatty crawled away. He felt the kick in the side. Jim rolled away and climbed to his feet, Finnegan slamming him in the jaw and pinning him to the wall. He saw stars before the next punch fell. Blood in his mouth, Jim writhed himself loose from the other man's grip and delivered a blow to his head. He followed it with another swift punch.

"You have nothing on me, you son of a bitch!" Jim shouted, "this isn't Riverside."

Finnegan jumped at him with a roar, sending them both crashing into a toppling table. Glasses hit the floor and shards flew, one nicking Jim in the brow. "You!" Finnegan said, hammering his fists over the younger man, "will always be dirt to me!"

Jim kicked him off, a satisfying crack sounding when Finnegan fell back with broken ribs. Jim leaped at him, fist pulled back for another blow when a sudden pain collided with the back of his head. Dazed, he swayed as his vision swam.

"I got 'im, Fin!"

He saw a chair hit the ground- had that smashed against him?- and the blurry faces of Finnegan and his buddy. And then there was a shower of red, and nothing at all.

XXX

It was cold. That was Jim's first sensation upon waking. He moaned- damn, that was a bad hangover. He opened his eyes to falling snow, wondering how much of it was over him. His body protested as he sat up, one massive headache in the make.

"Easy there, easy there," a cheery voice said, hands holding onto his shoulders.

Jim blinked to focus. He was back in the jacket. And- There was blood caked on his face- his nose felt swollen and his jaw was on fire. The man kneeling by him was balding, his face ratty, a stache- wait-

Jim knocked the guy down in a fit of rage. He was about to hit again when the man held his hands up in a pleading gesture. "Wait- wait, I know what you think- but if it wasn't for me, my boy, you'd be dead."

"It's the other way around," Jim hissed.

"He hit you with a chair and they were going to leave you out to freeze- see, I brought you blankets and some cotton, and this," the man said, unfolding his hand to reveal what looked like beans.

"Was I robbed?"

"No, no- not much to steal."

"Are you saying you tried-"  _You ungrateful bastard!_

"Here, here, take these herbs- it'll soothe that cranium of yours." He took it upon himself to pry open Jim's mouth and toss the beans in. The latter swallowed with a glare.  _These better not be poisoned._

Jim stood up with fatty's help, still glaring daggers at him. He grit his teeth. "Okay- you've done enough. Just let me get on my way-"

"Wait- wait- I have a gift for you- my life would be forfeit if not for you, my boy."

Jim eyed him warily. "I don't think I can trust you."

"Ah, pardon me- I forgot to introduce myself; Harry Mudd, artifact merchant and antique trader at your service." This was followed by a grin so shady Jim wanted to bang his head again.

"The name's Kirk. Just give it to me and let's get this over with."

"It's in my shop- I would have taken you there, but you see, I have not the strength."

Jim punched him again. Fuck this!  _I risk my ass for you, and you couldn't bother putting me somewhere warm._

"Wait- wait! It's worth a ton of credits, I swear- the best find of my career."

Mudd's hands went up in that useless defensive posture again. No wonder Finnegan wanted to smash his face in. Jim should have just let him. Always had to do the hard, stupid thing. Just like a Kirk boy to never learn. He raised a fist, Mudd backing away. But he didn't hit- Jim brought the hand up to his own face and futilely wiped at the blood.  _Really did a number on me, you assholes._

"It's just down the street, in the corner."

The snow continued to pile and Jim swore there were icicles in his nose. Without waiting for directions, he walked ahead, the sway lessening with each step. His head was light despite the throbbing. It was a cloudy night- grey, bleak, and almost starless, the moon a dull shade in the black of space. Most of the shops were barred shut. A few lights were lit in the brick apartments, but nothing really seemed alive.

They came to a stop at a shop labeled  _Mudd's Antique Show_. It was painted with garish red and the glass was covered with fog. Mudd fumbled with a key and unlocked the front door. "That gentleman, Finnegan, was it? He wanted this old fishing rod, seventeenth century, best of the best. The contract clearly states it's past its functioning. It's in the fine print, my boy."

 _Stop calling me that_. The door clicked at last and Mudd gestured for Jim to enter first. The latter obliged and stepped into a surprisingly spacious area, everything shrouded in shadow. He could make out the shapes of furniture and paintings, some statues in the back.

"I'll get the light!" Mudd shuffled beside him. Click. Something fluttered.

A miniature chandelier flashed to life and Jim blinked to ease the sharp sting to his eyes. Mudd's shop smelled of old wood and was stacked with items, some covered, some not. One wall was covered entirely with old oil paintings. There were shelf upon shelf of yellowing books. And in the center was what appeared to be a clerk's desk, wedged between two Victorian lamps.

"Just a minute," Mudd told him as he went behind the desk. Jim followed. Mudd uncovered a chest from under the desk and tinkered with the lock. "I have to be careful- this thing is valuable."

Jim watched, mildly excited in spite of himself. The chest was unlocked, revealing several worthless objects: screws, pocketwatches, piano keys, pens. Mudd fished inside it until his hands gripped what appeared to be a flute.

It was a hollowed instrument, that much was certain, looking as if it had been broken at the top and bottom edges. It curved slightly. Wooden, with two drilled holes in the body. It looked to be faded purple, chipped here and there, a few splashes of mottle on it. It was simultaneously the ugliest and most beautiful thing Jim had ever seen.

"That supposed to be an instrument?" he asked.

"Of sorts," Mudd said. Then his voice dropped, "it's incomplete, but enough for the purpose."

"That means it's expensive right? Get me a hundred credits?"

Mudd shook his head vigorously. "It's priceless, Mr. Kirk, more than you can imagine. Not many know of it."

"All right- so what the hell is it?"

"A summoner, of secrets, wishes...  _demons_."

Jim scowled. The urge to snort was strong. Mudd shot him a glare. "If you play it correctly, what it contains will belong to you- it's a fantastic, dangerous gamble, my boy. Do with it what you will, but remember that this is priceless on the black market."

With that, Mudd dropped the flute in Jim's hands. It wasn't very heavy. Not too light either. The right kind of weight in his calloused hands. It wasn't too shabby a gift after all. Now if only his body would stop smarting.

"Well, if you don't mind, I have to get packing- there are a few gents who disagree with me-"

Maybe because he was a damn swindler. Jim tapped his fingers on the flute (?) or summoner, whatever Mudd called it. It was probably a hoax too, but he was too tired to care. It made a good decoration at any rate.

"I'm off. Stay out of trouble, Mudd."  _I'll be gone in the morning- no one to save your sorry ass now._

Jim didn't bother listening to the dealer's reply- something about prices and wanting Jim's patience, all done in that pretentious, nasally voice of his. He was out the door in no time, the wintry air stabbing at him immediately. The flute- still not sure if he should call it that- seemed to glisten, its color giving away once exposed to oxygen. He stuffed it in the inner pocket, feeling an irrational urge to protect it.

It was all he had. That and some credits to get by. He couldn't stay in this town, not with Finnegan knowing he was around. It wouldn't be long before someone in the ice business came down to investigate. He'd have to wait a year at least for the name Kirk to blow over. Then travel would be a lot easier. He felt light on his feet. The town passed him soon enough.

It had to have been less than an hour before he was in blank snow again. There was no snowmobile to use and he couldn't risk stealing one from here, not if he didn't want to leave a trail. The magic beans must have worked. He was feeling better. His body ached less, his nose softer. He shivered and cursed, feet taking him into a shrouded forest.

 _Straight line path, Jim. Keep a straight line._  He wouldn't get lost and freeze here. He refused to meet that fate. He'd sooner kill whatever predators came his way than let them take his life. He fell, yelping as a clump of snow crashed into his head.

Groaning, Jim pushed himself up and scooted until his back was against the trunk of a tree. "Isn't this the good life?" he muttered, "hey, hey, Gary, you were right- there's nothing out here for me."

He was cold and hurt and frustrated beyond words. "But I can't go back, you know. I can't."

Jim fumbled inside his jacket, clumsily taking the flute out. It probably didn't play. "Got- got this busted thing. Maybe I can make a fortune as musician or something- I'm not too shabby with music."

Which was the bottom and which was the top to this thing? He couldn't tell. And he didn't care. Jim tossed the flute in the air and caught it as it came down. The wood chipped more. He thought of Gary Mitchell back home with the ice. Just another face that had promised more than he could give. Hadn't it been Gary who told him everything would be all right, that if they stuck around and worked hard, they'd get out of Riverside? Good old Gary had gone ahead and accepted a fishing job instead. And told Jim that everything he said before was just fool's talk.

But that was behind him. Jim balanced the flute between his hands, its curves oddly delicate, as if forged by hands that weren't quite human. Jim was no composer, but he could carry a decent tune.  _Had that sailor song stuck in my head for hours._

He straightened the instrument and pointed what he assumed to be the opening at his mouth. Lips pressing against the dusty wood, he blew. The sound that came out was a windy echo, almost like the willowy voice of a ghost. Jim had played the harmonica once- that was about it. But something about this thing told him not to give up.

His fingers pressed the holes at intervals as he entered more breath in the flute. And for a split moment, it was just him and the forest, all tree and snow and sky and nothing else. Incoherent sounds churned together. Noises became notes and soon, Jim could hear a tune coming out. It was slow and unsteady, lonely. His fingers moved faster.

The tune formed. He blew harder. The song was getting  _good_. Not good good. The strange kind of good, the kind that compelled him to keep listening even though something was off about this. He knew no instrument that could produce this kind of sound, this windy, lonely whisper of a tune. It rolled in his ears and consumed the world about him.

It raked through the trees and past the leaves. Even the falling snow seemed ready to bend for each note.

A slow sensation of heat crawled through his skin. The shock of it was enough to drop the flute, but he didn't. He played on, moving of his own accord. The tune was inside his mind. He knew it- it wasn't just a sound anymore. It was part of him.  _Stop it, Jim. Stop it!_

But he couldn't. It was a horrifying moment of ecstasy. That object told him to keep going, to play the tune through, as if he had been doing it for a hundred years and more. The song was still ringing within him when a sharp surge of energy struck his being. Jim fell, his fingers burnt, a blur of violet aurora rushing ahead of him.

He watched, stupefied, as the instrument hit the ground, tendrils of dark light unfurling from its edges. The auroras mixed and dove at one another, purple twirls fighting navy beams, swirls of black and melding shadows. And the instrument continued its song without an owner.

The wind that resulted whipped at Jim, blowing at the flaps of his jacket and sending strands of hair slicking back. It was so powerful that it kept him stuck on the ground, the snow shooting about him, dead leaves cleaned off the swaying branches. He was afraid to move, petrified, transfixed.

The song stopped.

The wind settled to a breeze, then a puff, and nothing at all. The snow returned to its patterns, the leaves clumped about him, and the swirls of color were gone. And in place of them was a stooped figure, the flute lying helpless at the newcomer's feet.

It was just Jim and cold and silence. He broke it with one word.

"Shit."

 _Holy shit. What the hell just happened?_  He stood up shakily, hugging himself in disbelief. What the actual hell just happened? The figure turned toward him, rising to its full height. Lean, pale, frozen.

Jim could only stare for a good few more seconds. It looked male, dressed in robes that stopped at the knees, with sleeves that ended just above the elbows. The fabric was dusty and gashed, torn at the edges and ripping at the seams. The body was proportioned, muscled, but from what Jim could see, it was far too thin to be healthy. Spots of green tainted the already damaged robes.

The feet were bare and the arms were covered in yellowing, green tinged bandages that extended to the long fingers. Everything about the limbs were dirty, splotched with grime, scars, and dust. Green gashes and marks marred the pallid skin, some still bleeding and some just scabbing. Was that _supposed_ to be blood? He didn't really want to know.

The face was obscured by a curtain of hair, long and straight, a tangle of disheveled black that reached the shoulders. Jim took a step closer.

And without warning, he- it?- lunged. The creature pounced on him with an anguished cry. Jim was on his back in the snow, the breath knocked clean out of him. Bandaged fists flew at his head. A blast of red told him his nose was struck again. The pain set in later.

He struggled to defend himself, but the thing was too fast.  _Shit, what the shit!_  Each blow hurt. Hurt badly. He was sure a cheekbone was shattered. Those hands latched onto his shoulder, broken nails scraping at the clothing, and Jim was lifted high up.  _Fuck it!_

He caught a glimpse of his attacker's face before he was tossed like a ragdoll. The face was just as dirty, bruised, and bloody as the rest of it- him?- and the eyes were brown, angry and brown. But what made Jim's bleeding mouth open was the bit of ear he saw. It was pointed, curved at the tip.

He flew through the air and slammed shoulder-first into a tree. The pain left him gasping as he slid down, stars in his vision. Pointy ears. What the hell was happening- the song- the flute- no. The summoner. Playing it correctly. Mudd's voice circled his mind.

The summoner was lying in the snow. It was a demon. He was assaulted by a fucking demon.  _He summoned a fucking demon_. And it was pissed as hell. It was going to rip him limb from limb and probably eat the rest. Holy shit. Jim couldn't let it end like this.

Without sparing his attacker another glance, he dove for the summoner. He reached it just as the demon came for him again. He held it clumsily against his lips and blew, desperately playing away. To his surprise, the exact same tune resulted.

But rather than sucking the creature back in as he hoped, it provoked an incoherent shout from the demon instead. It fell in the snow, teeth chattering and clutching its own shoulders, as if in some form of unbearable pain. It was still twitching when Jim pulled his mouth away from the instrument.  _I am so fucked._

He approached it again. Suicidal, he knew. But it just looked so pathetic there in the snow, shivering and shuddering. Granted, he probably didn't look any better. Wincing, he knelt beside it. He should probably kill it or run away... but it looked- it looked cold. Those filthy robes were too short and too thin for any protection in this weather. And if all those marks were anything to go by, it- he- was hurt.

Murderous demon or not, the thing needed someone. And Jim realized he had nothing more to lose. As long as he didn't die. The summoner was in his hands. If Mudd was to be believed, the demon was his now. That statement sounded drunk.

"Hey," he said softly, "I'm not here to hurt you."

He ventured to touch the creature's arm. A familiar shock jolted his being.  _What the-_  The feeling struck within him, in a sensation that was somewhere between painful and thrilling. When the feeling settled, he heard a voice in his head that was certainly not his or Mudd's or anyone else he knew for that matter.

_We are bound._

A broken whisper from a hopeless speaker. Jim's hand retreated and he found himself staring face to face with the demon, its gaze reluctant and resigned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please let me know if you'd like to see this continued!


End file.
